Unknown Soldier
by Reizna
Summary: You curse your fate again. You wish to cry out, but you cannot. Otherwise, they will find you. The enemy will find you.


******Disclaimer**: Final Fantasy is owned by Square Enix, and I don't profit at all.

Second Person POV, Present Tense. Heavily inspired by the music of _Les Misérables. _Personally, this was a challenge to stay in second person, present tense, but I like how this was written.

* * *

_Unknown Soldier_

* * *

You are a measly foot soldier. You are of Rubrum blood. The boiling red blood flows through your veins. That red blood burns with the desire to protect your home, but that desire is limited. And there is not much you can do. You curse your misfortune. You curse your parents for your normality.

Your dreams are crushed before your very eyes. Your dream of glory fades as you remember: you are not truly gifted with magic. You cannot be placed into a Class among the talented youth in the Peristylium Suzaku. Though you are of age, there is no shred of talent within you.

You curse your fate again. You wish to cry out, but you cannot. Otherwise, they will find you. The enemy will find you.

And if the enemy wins this fight, your home will not be free. You think of the many things that could happen. Your father and brothers will work in Militean factories to create more weapons of war. If they are strong, they will be forced to fight for them, forced to subdue any spark of rebellion from their fellow brothers.

Your mother and your sisters will be tending to their wounded, captives in Militean homes. Your women will become the spoils of discord. Those steel beasts will take their pick among them. If your mother or sisters try to resist, they can be raped and left for dead.

Speaking of dead, the Militean Emperor is nowhere to be found. You think he has expired. A dictator rules in his place. You hear that he is a good speaker, but the Byakko Crystal has not chosen him. Divine right was not his. The people have chosen him. And you find yourself asking why.

_Why?_

Why have the Militean people chosen him?

You were never any good at remembering history, so you cannot name the probable causes. However, you know of things that are happening. The Lorican Alliance could crumble to their feet any day. The Kingdom of Concordia breathes dragon fire against Militean steel. If they are attacked, they will not last the night against these beasts.

If that dictator seizes the Dominion of Rubrum, he may as well rule the world. All of Orience shall be in his hands. And we will be slaves again. You say _we_ as the entire world, not just you, will suffer. It is like in your history class, but instead of learning, you will live that life of oppression. And that life is not living.

You are just a soldier. You are Number 24601. Your name will be forgotten. And you will be a slave.

And if the Dominion of Rubrum falls, that is all you will be: a mere number.

24600 is your senior, your dear friend Izana Kunagiri. He too is like you. No trace of magic courses through him, but yet he enlists and fights like you. He has a little brother he wants to protect. But unlike you, he has a different mission that he must complete. Izana and his beloved chocobo (whose name is odd) have been chosen to deliver something to the best of the best.

The best of the best are the Chosen. You have not seen them, but you have heard whispers of them. They call the great sorceress Arecia Al-Rashia 'mother'. And you know that such children will be powerful.

Delivery of the COMMs to these few will ensure communications between your commander and the Chosen. The Suzaku Crystal has been jammed. Magic cannot be utilized, but from what you have heard, the Chosen can use magic without the Crystal's help. How could that be?

You hear your captain's cry. You dismiss your earlier thought. It is time to move out. Your barricade still stands, but you and your comrades are among the last standing. Clutching your rifle, you know that the magical aspect of your gun is useless without the Crystal.

What stands between you and the enemy's guns is a miserable wall. Your makeshift wall is made from fallen debris, broken furniture such as tables and chairs and anything else found in empty homes. It will not last the night and you know it. Your partner cannot bring up the shields any longer; magic is lost to them too.

You are on your own.

On three, you must fire at will.

Fire at will, hit the enemy and live, lest you die.

You hear your captain invoking the name of the Goddess and count to three. You roll out from where you are hiding. Your finger is on the trigger. You pull. You hear the sound of bullets being released, echoing across the once silent streets of your city. It rings out loud and clear.

After that, you cannot hear anything.

You do not even hear Izana yelling back at you as he departs from the barricade.

You do not hear your partners falling to their deaths.

You do not know that your captain has been shot down.

You do not hear the haughty laughter of the enemy.

All you can hear is the ringing in your ears.

That's when you feel it. There is an intruding pain in your chest. You take in a sharp breath. Even to breathe hurts you so. You drop your rifle and realize that you are standing in your grave. They will not miss the mark next time.

The pain then spreads throughout your entire body. You lift your head for a moment. You see the enemy taking aim at you, looking you right in the eye. In the days long past, you would have thought them human; but monsters, they are at this moment and forevermore.

They call you names like Rubrum scum. You can read it on their lips. You see that they mean you harm. They think you will beg for your life, but even as you dance so close to death, your pride swells within you. That hot blood in your veins refuses to surrender. Not now, not ever.

There is nothing else you can do. Soon your world will diminish to black, the color of despair, and the color of the approaching night hours off. They find your captain's flag and open their lips to revel with victorious laughter.

No.

This is not how it will end.

It cannot be.

24600 must be alive. Izana still lives, does he not?

This cannot be.

Mockingly, the masked enemy drags your beloved banner across the bloodied, uneven ground and drapes the flag of your home over your shoulders. You cast your gaze down and curse your executioners. Count your blessings as you hear their guns and their steel. They mean to give you a soldier's death.

That is what they make you think.

One shoots your arm. You cry out.

Even if Rubrum falls and the world is lost, you will not beg for your life.

They shoot your leg. You scream again.

As you bleed more, you will not beg for your life. Your stubborn blood will not allow this.

And then, you see _it _behind your executioners. You see the mighty Odin charge his heavy blade to slice your foes. You see the war god's steed, Slepnir, raise his master to new heights. Your chest swells with breathe once more. When all hope is almost lost, _they_ arrive, tossing up their coats into the cloudy sky. With their red mantles trailing behind them, they come with their weapons amidst the fire and debris.

They have come.

They have arrived.

They are no older than you are. They are more or less your height. Class Zero is composed of the best and the brightest, the most gifted of all the Classes. They are of Rubrum blood. That burning blood that flows in your veins also flows in theirs. It too burns with the desire to protect home.

And they are _special_.

Red is the blood of angry men and women, your friends and fellow soldiers who have fallen before you. Red flies behind the Chosen. That madder sky burns behind them as they raise your nation's flag. As the Vermilion Bird rises once more, you know that Rubrum will not be subjected to a life of oppression.

That is all you could ask for.

You drop to your knees. If you could stand any longer, you would join them in the fight, but you cannot seem to move your fingertips anymore. It no longer matters. Your task is complete. You have done all you could have done. You find yourself content. The world around you slowly turns to silver glass before fading away to black. It is getting cold. Taking the flag from your shoulders, you lie on the ground and cover yourself with the banner.

You cannot feel its light touch against your chest. In fact, you cannot feel anything else. Your breaths begin to slow. You allow your tired eyelids fall. As you draw your last, you hear distant drums and the singing of your people amidst the dying flames.


End file.
